I inspect the garden, a neglected L-strip of plants, sweet Williams, roses, and tiny wild straw berries, the kind perfect for tiny turtle mouths. Then back down the hill, another glance skyward, the twists of clouds, heavy off to the left where the storm's gone moving on.
Honey suckle and wild rose climb the hills further back, nature's slice of reprieve, falling in a veil toward the ground.
The grass at my feet is still damp with the rain, flecks of water on the blades, cut short, too close to earth to dampen my sock, but the occasional weed, broken free of the rule of the mower's blade, bobs tall amongst the rest, enough to dampen the white fabric and make tiny puppy legs uncomfortable, down the hill, past the bird feeder in the walnut and the statue of the girl, holding nature to her chest, the deer pressed against her for comfort--though how much comfort he gets, I don't know. The puppy sort of aims for his head when he has to go. Poor little deer.
And back inside, back to the keyboard, back to say hello, to tell you what's been done in my absence, where I've been and where I'm going, thoughtful as the sky shades gray behind the blinds, nature caught outside, separated by glass and the one noticeable feature, the peach pink a breath against the thick white clouds, and hidden behind the clouds, the thick wedge of moon glows through them.
And slowly does the sun slip away to brighten another coast. What a beautiful eve.